


The Ties That Bond

by orphan_account



Category: Jack Ryan & Related Fandoms, Jack Ryan (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, BAMF James Bond, Blood and Torture, Bonding, Gareth Mallory is M, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt Jack, Jack Feels, Lima Syndrome, My First Work in This Fandom, Poor Jack, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective James Bond, Racism, Religious Conflict, Religious Fanaticism, Rescue, Terrorism, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-01-22 13:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: While on a covert operation, Jack Ryan is abducted. Denying all knowledge of his mission, the CIA refuses to get involved. In desperation, Cathy Muller turns to MI6 for help. Agent 007 is dispatched to rescue Ryan and bring him home.
Relationships: Cathy Muller/Jack Ryan, Jack Ryan & James Bond, James Bond/Madeleine Swann
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	1. Ain't That A Kick In The Head?

When the black bag was ripped off of his face, Jack Ryan took a deep, desperate gulp of air. Almost immediately, the butt of a rifle was slammed into his stomach. He groaned and fell forward facedown in the dirt. 

His nose broke from bearing the brunt of his weight. Cruel, calloused hands grabbed the twist tie that bound his own and roughly yanked him back up to a kneeling position.

Jack’s vision swam. As one of his captors began to speak in a rapid staccato of unintelligible sounds, his eyes were able to focus. 

One of the men - dressed like all the others in olive drab fatigues, his face concealed by a black ski mask - stood holding a camcorder a few yards away. Jack sniffed and tasted a bitter metallic tang. He opened his mouth and spit out a glob of phlegm and blood.

The cameraman scowled and uttered a string of harsh words, more gibberish that Jack couldn’t understand. The hands that had pulled him up now grabbed tufts of his thick brown hair and yanked until he cried out. 

The hands released him abruptly. Jack sighed in relief, but in the next breath screamed in agony as he was bashed in the ribs by an unseen object.

“Please,” he rasped, when he found the strength to speak. “Please!” 

He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know if they could understand. He just wanted the pain to stop. His wish was granted when the videographer stepped forward and viciously kicked him in the side of the head.

* * *

“Have you seen the video?” Jim fought to keep his tone even. 

He wrung his hands and stared at the blank white walls of the Director’s office. For a moment, he thought she hadn’t heard him. He was about to repeat himself, when she finally spoke up.

“Yes, of course I’ve seen it. I saw it before it got out to any of the networks.” 

She frowned and covered her mouth with steepled hands. Jim waited in silence until his patience wore out.  


“So, what are we going to do, Madam Director? What do they want?”

The Director placed her hands on her desk. She sighed and shook her head sadly.

“We’re not going to do anything, Greer. Ryan was in Israel unauthorized. If we make a move, we could jeopardize the ties between our countries and cause a diplomatic shitshow. I’ve reached out to the Directors of Shin Bet and Mossad. Nobody wants to get involved. The way they see it, Ryan’s abduction has nothing to do with Israeli security. Our hands are tied.”

“Bullshit!” Jim snarled and stood up, slamming his hands down on the desk. “You said it yourself, the video’s been distributed to all the major networks. The public has likely already seen it. If not, it’s only a matter of time until they do. They’ll demand that Ryan be rescued.”

“Indeed they will. And indeed **he will**. I just need to make a call.”


	2. Death By Fags

Bond’s heart began to race the moment he walked into M’s office. 

In the seven or so years since the man had assumed the role as head of MI6, Bond had frequently been on the receiving end of M’s signature scowl. This time, however, he was greeted with a doleful frown that contained no hint of disdain.

Wordlessly, Bond sat down and waited to be addressed. The summons on the phone had been clipped and brusque to the point of discourtesy: “Come here.” As if Bond were a dog or an errand boy, not the most infamous, powerful agent in the Service.

M sighed and cleared his throat. “Good morning, 007. Or, I should say, I wish it were a good morning.” He sighed again and rubbed his forehead.

“I just got off the phone with one of our former assets in the States. Cathy Muller, do you remember her? The pretty little blonde pathologist at Washington Memorial.”

Bond laughed dryly. “Respectfully, sir, I’ve no idea who you’re referring to. Believe me, I’ve known quite a few ‘pretty little blondes’ in my time, American and otherwise. If our paths have indeed crossed, I would remember her, if she were memorable.”

“Ah, yes, of course. You have known quite a few blondes in your time. And brunettes. And redheads.”

“Point taken, sir. What did Ms. Muller have to say that has so upset you?”

“Since you asked nicely, I’ll get right to the point: Cathy Muller has asked for our assistance in rescuing her significant other. That would be one John Patrick ‘Jack’ Ryan, an analyst and occasional field agent for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Bond frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Is the CIA incapable of saving one of its own?”

M laughed. “It is hardly a matter of incapability, Bond. Agent Ryan was taken hostage whilst in Israel on some shady business that wasn't approved by the CIA. My American counterpart received a recording this morning filmed by the abductors. They beat the poor bugger to a pulp. Broke his nose, shattered his ribs, fractured his skull. As much as they want to get him out of there, the Americans can’t get directly involved. They don’t want to stir up any trouble with the Israelis.”

“So they phoned us.” Bond reached into his front pocket for his pack of Morlands and lighter. He lit one up and took a deep, slow drag. M stood up and turned to open a window.

“Actually, the Director phoned Cathy directly, and _she_ phoned us. I wish you’d lay off the fags. They’ll kill you, you know. It’s a bloody disgusting habit, at any rate. Your fingertips turn yellow, your breath reeks. You fill your body with chemicals.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. But thank you for your concern, sir. You know as well as I that I’m not going to quit. I’ve smoked since I was 16. I’m 50 now, and if I do die sooner rather than later, I can at least say that I’ve had a decent life, if not long. I’ll die one way or another, whether by the fags or a bullet. I’m not very particular about how I’ll bow out.”

“Good God, man, don’t talk like that. You are our best agent.”

“That’s high praise. While I am inclined to agree, I can’t help but think you’re flattering me in an attempt to make me more amenable. But you’re my boss, sir, you needn’t ask me.”

“You know, Bond, you’re a lot smarter than people give you credit for. I knew I could count on you.”

“Well, then, I suppose I have a flight to catch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for the reads, kudos, and comments so far. I really had no idea how this would be received. I have never written a story in the action/thriller/spy genre before. 
> 
> I have loved the James Bond movies with Daniel Craig since I was a child, and now love the Jack Ryan webseries on Prime. This is my tentative attempt to bring these characters I love so much together.
> 
> Thanks again. ✌️


	3. Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There once was a time I was sure of the bond,  
when my hands and my tongue and my thoughts were enough.  
We are the same, but our lives move along  
and the third one between replaces what once was love."  
\- Vienna Teng

It was 3:00 in the morning, and Cathy couldn’t sleep. 

She got the news about Jack at midnight, and her first response had been to laugh. She had not seen him in over a year, not since he killed Suleiman. She had not been able to protect Jack from the memories. 

She had tried - God knew she had tried - but in the end her hands, tongue, and lips were not enough. Even her love, it seemed, was not enough.

For the first few weeks, Cathy had held him as he shook and whimpered and cried out. “Shh, Jack, it’s alright, baby. I’m here."

She was often able to calm him down. She had kissed a path from his lips down his chest and stomach. She had licked the contours of his navel as she slid his boxers down.

For a while, she had been able to make him moan from pleasure instead of pain. He gripped her hair tightly as he came, his eyes clenched shut. The dull ache in her scalp had been worth it. He always slept better, after.

Then one night he'd mistaken Cathy for an enemy combatant. She had reached for Jack, and in his vivid dream-memory had tackled her off of the bed. He had put his hands around her throat and squeezed.

As she gasped for breath, Cathy had feebly slapped and scratched his cheeks. Jack did not release her until, in desperation, she slipped her fingers into the hot gap of his fly hole and crushed his balls in her palm.

When he came back to himself, Jack had been horrified. So much so that he had immediately left Cathy’s apartment, wearing her black terry cloth bathrobe and bedroom slippers. He had left without saying a word. He had not contacted her at all for the next 12 months, and now this.

When the Director told her that there was nothing they could do for Jack, Cathy thanked her rotely and hung up. Moments later, she riffled through the drawer of her bedside bureau until she found the cheap burner phone she kept for emergencies.

She dialed the +44 calling code, and the 10 digit number that connected her directly with the head of Great Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. “Hello?” Cathy smiled grimly at the hint of a yawn in his voice.

“Please, spare me. It’s almost 6:00 in the morning where you are. I know it’s early, but listen up, you limey bastard.”

M chuckled. “My, my, such ugly, uncouth language for such a beautiful woman. Whatever am I going to do with you, Caroline?”

“It’s ‘Cathy,’ Mallory. Damn, how many times do I have to tell you?”

“Ah, such a shame. ‘Caroline’ is a beautiful name, very refined. It suits you much better. Why, it means -”

“Mallory! I don’t care what it means. Listen to me!” Cathy’s voice broke on a sob. “What’s wrong, Cathy? What can I do to help you?”

Cathy sniffled and took a deep breath. “I need you to find someone. I need you to rescue him. Use all the resources at your disposal. Make the bastards who took him pay. Remember, you owe me a favor. This is me calling it in.”

“Yes, of course, love. Who is it you need me to find? Where is he? Tell me everything you know.”

So she did. All she knew for sure was that Jack was being held in Israel, most likely in the South District. Her grandfather Absalom had once owned a manor in Be’er Sheva.

Her father had been born there, had lived there the first 10 years of his life. The Mullers had immigrated to the United States shortly after the Six Days War of 1967.

“Alright, I’ll get my best agent on it right away. I’ll keep you informed every step of the way. As soon as I hear something, I’ll pass it on to you.”

“Thank you, Mallory. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Cathy. We’ll speak soon.”

She stayed on the line until it went dead. She sighed and snapped the phone apart at its hinge. She got into bed and pulled the covers up under her chin while she stared at the ceiling.

Later on, she would slip the broken phone parts into a pair of socks and throw them out. It was strange, perhaps, but Cathy preferred to err on the side of caution. 

Jack would likely have kissed her, gently, as he had done when he noticed what an inordinate amount of time she spent washing her hands. How often she checked to make sure the front door was locked, the stove top turned off.

“I’m here with you, Cathy. Nothing’s going to happen. You’re safe with me.”

_**Safe**_. What a quaint concept.

Cathy had long ago stopped believing in safety, even the illusion of safety. As much as he claimed that he loved her, she somehow doubted that even Jack believed the words he had said.

He hadn’t been able to keep her safe, and he had literally run away. Cathy wondered which was more painful: leaving someone behind, or being left behind.

When he had left her apartment that night, Jack had also left a hole in her heart that could never be filled.

Her eyes drifted closed as the first rays of sunlight drifted in through the windows.


	4. Sufferin' Shegetz

Jack regained consciousness slowly. He became aware of his surroundings long before he opened his eyes. From the warm, wet air and the occasional sound of water droplets falling, he deduced that he was in a cave. From the harsh, low murmurs of his captors, he learned everything else.

“What are we going to do with the _shegetz_? I thought the CIA would have sent someone after him by now. We sent them the video nearly three days ago.”

_**Three days?**_ Jack groaned inwardly. He had not been unconscious for such a long period of time since being hit in the head by grenade shrapnel during his first tour in Iraq. Of course, then he’d had the luxury of a hospital and advanced medical treatment. Now, his head hurt so much he would have slit someone’s throat for a Tylenol, if only his hands weren’t tied and bound above his head.

“Avi, you worry too much. The video was sent directly to the Director herself. Sooner or later, someone will come. It is not a question of ‘if’ but ‘when'. He is far too valuable and beloved for the United States to simply abandon. Especially since he put an end to the Yemenite’s biological attack.”

“You would think so, but it still seems like we should have heard something by now. Nobody has said anything about his capture, even though the public is in an uproar. All the American bigwigs are just dragging their feet.”

“Sure they are now, but trust me. Sooner or later they will send someone for him. Jack Ryan is a national - no, an international - hero. The United States is not about to hang him out to dry. Trust me.”

“Maybe you’re right. I guess three days really isn’t very much time.”

“No, it really is not. With that in mind, I think it would be wise for us to stop speaking English. I know that you are not very confident, Avi, but your Hebrew is commendable. I suggest you keep practicing.”

Jack’s attention drifted as the men lapsed into the tongue he now knew was Hebrew.

It sounded gruff and guttural in the men’s voices. Jack remembered the one time he’d managed to convince Cathy to speak in the liturgical language she had spent years memorizing.

“_Ani ohevit otkha._ I love you,” she had murmured in his ear, taking the lobe between her teeth. She turned her head aside and kissed his cheek, the line of his jaw, the fluttering pulse beneath his skin.

Abruptly, the rope that bound Jack’s wrists together snapped. He grunted and staggered unsteadily. His fingers burned as his circulation returned. He groaned and slowly sank to his knees on the cave floor.

“Oh, crap! I bet he heard everything, Eli. What are we gonna do?”

“We’re going to stop speaking English, for starters.” The older man flicked his companion - Avi’s - ear and rattled off a string of vehement Hebrew that was unmistakably laden with profanity. Jack bit his lip to stifle his laughter. He remembered what is was like to be on the receiving end of his superior officer’s  
disgust.

The men looked over and scowled simultaneously. Avi covered the distance between them and grabbed Jack’s head in a chokehold. He held a small blade that looked like an emory beard to his neck. 

“Is something funny, you fuckin’ goy? You wanna share it with the class?” He pressed the blade into Jack’s skin. A small rivulet of blood seeped from the shallow cut and trickled down his chest.

“No,” Jack rasped weakly. He said nothing more, but panted as Avi tightened his hold. The edges of his vision darkened before the old man intervened. “That’s enough, let him go. You are too rough, Avi. The first time you laid him out for three days. What, do you want to put him in a coma? Are you trying to kill him?”

As abruptly as he’d grabbed him, Avi let go. Jack coughed and groaned as the movement jostled his broken ribs. He clutched his side and stared at the men dumbfounded. 

Eli, the old man, wore the black suit and tall fur hat that marked him as an Orthodox Jew. The thick, gnarly white beard that stretched to his chest reminded Jack of Santa Clause. 

His apparel was in stark contrast to Avi, who wore a tattered Iron Maiden T-shirt, blue jeans, and red canvas sneakers. He looked like just about any other guy you’d see out and about. On closer inspection, Jack saw that Avi was a lot younger than he had thought, maybe 18.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at the old man. “Jeez, Eli, I wasn’t trying to _kill_ ‘im! I just wanna know what’s so damn funny. Teach him not to underestimate me. Mr. Bigshot Marine/All-American Hero. It’s because of people like him that we came here in the first place. Fuck ‘em. Fuck the US of A.”

Jack moaned as the pain in his side sharpened. It blended with the pain in his head and his broken nose and he passed out again.


	5. Not A Prayer

On the morning of his third day in Israel, Bond was woken at 6:30 by the shrill ring of the phone on the bedside table. He groaned and reached blindly for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Good morning, sir. This is your wakeup call. I hope you slept well?”

The woman’s breathy voice and exotic accent excited him. Bond closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was happily engaged. He had been for going on four years. 

There was as yet no date set, but in all that time he had been faithful to Madeleine, however many times he had been tempted to stray. His philandering days were long gone.

“Yes, thank you,” he said crisply and hung up. He sat up straight in bed and stretched. The moment his feet hit the floor, his mobile buzzed with an incoming call. Bond smiled when he saw the caller I.D. and swiped the screen right to answer.

“Hello darling. I was just thinking about you.”

“Is that so?” Madeleine chuckled. “Perhaps we have been together so long that our minds have melded.” She sniffled and blew her nose noisily. “I’m sorry, I seem to have come down with a cold.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you taken anything for it?” Bond asked as he dressed in the royal blue polo shirt and khaki pants that were the last clean outfit he had. 

He had packed only the essentials and a few changes of clothes in his carryon duffel bag, trusting that he would be able to find Jack and extract him within the week.

“Yes, I’ve taken some paracetamol and echinacea lozenges. I find it’s best to let one’s own body fight off infection, don’t you?”

“I do,” he agreed as he tied the laces of his brown boat shoes. “Madeleine, I’m sorry to be so brief, but I’ve got to run. I’ll be home soon.”

“You had better,” Madeleine pouted. “I miss you, James.”

“I miss you too, darling. I love you.”

_“Ciao, mon cher. Je t’aime aussi, tellement.”_

Bond sighed as the call disconnected. He looked himself over in the full length mirror on the room’s back wall. He could easily pass for an ordinary tourist.

Satisfied, Bond plastered on a smile and went to work.

* * *

Nearly 6,000 miles away, Cathy frowned as she observed a group of men mumble and sway, their faces obscured by their thick beards. She idly wondered how their hats stayed on top of their heads with all the bowing and gesticulating they did.

They held their _siddurim_ tightly, working themselves into a sort of frenzy as they prayed in the ancient language she barely remembered, in spite of three years of Hebrew school, three times a week.

It had been at her mother’s insistence that she reluctantly trudged into the basement of the synagogue every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday evening. While her friends ate pulled pork sandwiches and watched _The Fresh Prince of Bel Air,_ she phonetically memorized prayers and portions of Torah. 

The Mullers were secular and non observant, attending the synagogue only for the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Yet, nearly from the moment she turned 10, Cathy’s indoctrination into Orthodox Judaism was of sudden paramount importance. She dutifully complied with her mother’s wishes, but put her foot down after her bat mitzvah. 

From then on, she had never gone to the synagogue again, with the exception of her mother’s funeral four years ago. Now, here she was, sitting in the back pew on the women’s side, wearing the long-sleeved black velvet V-neck dress, black pumps, and god awful pillbox hat she had worn then. With the somber and oppressive atmosphere, Cathy felt like she was at a funeral.

**_No, for the love of God, don’t. Don’t you dare think it!_** She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. Since hearing of Jack’s abduction, Cathy dreaded every time the phone rang. She imagined Jack’s body, pale and battered, laid out in a casket on Arlington’s lawn. 

As an excommunicated Catholic, a blasphemous liberal whose views were in contradiction to Church teaching, Jack would not be able to be buried with his parents in Baltimore’s Holy Cross Cemetery. 

Cathy closed her eyes against hot, bitter tears. Poor Jack. Like her, he had been subjected to a life of insidious psychological and spiritual abuse. It had been far worse for him, because the bulk of his education had been in Catholic schools. 

Cathy had cried as he told her of the numerous times he’d been paddled for the pranks he pulled, the questions he’d asked. “Sister Uldine, if God is perfect, why did he have to rest on the seventh day of creation?”

Jack had laughed, but she buried her face in his chest. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Promise me, here and now: we will never subject our children to any of this...superstitious bullshit. Promise me, Jack.”

“OK, Cathy. OK,” he’d said, kissing the top of her head. “I promise.”

But then he had left, and taken any desire for motherhood she’d had with him. 

There was no other man for her, no one as compatible with her and suitable as the father of her children. While he appreciated her physical beauty, and often told her so, Jack also loved Cathy’s mind and independence.

From her purse, the Trio section of _Pomp and Circumstance March #1_ suddenly played. The men continued their prayers, but a few shot her angry, disapproving glares. Cathy smiled tightly, greatly tempted to shoot the pompous bastards a one-finger salute.

She slipped out of the pew and out the front door. She reached into her purse for her newest burner phone, another simple black flip phone she’d gotten at CVS for $20. “Hello, Mallory.”

“Hello Cathy,” M practically purred in greeting. _“Shabbat shalom.”_

_“Shabbat shalom,”_ she echoed, puzzled. “Why did you say that? You know I’m not observant.”

“Be that as it may, one of ours saw you go into Ohev Sholom about 30 minutes ago. Saying a prayer for Ryan?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “I don’t know why I came here. I don’t even believe in God.”

“Careful, Cathy, you’re in a house of worship. The God you claim not to believe in may very well strike you dead.”

“Ha, ha. I don’t know who’s told you otherwise, but you’re really not funny, Mallory. What’s going on?”

“Perhaps the prayers of others reached God’s ear on your behalf. I have just received confirmation from our man in Israel. We’ve found him, Cathy. Jack Ryan is alive.”


	6. Riveting Reconnaisance

After spending the morning aboard a crowded bus with tourists visiting Abraham’s Well in Be’er Sheva, he rendezvoused with Yizhak Levy, a former assassin for the Metsada unit of Mossad and current mercenary hired by MI6 as his guide and backup.

From what M told him, Levy had initially been reluctant to assist Bond in the case. His mind had been easily changed by the up front payment of £10,000, with the promise of £10,000 more after Ryan was successfully extracted. Levy was a tall, thin man in his early 20’s who dressed simply in stonewashed jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Bond found him leaning against a vending machine outside the Visitor Center. He held a half-smoked Noblesse between his index and middle fingers.

“This is my first time in Israel. What’s good to drink?” Bond asked as he surveyed the options. Levy dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it into the sand. “I’d say Prigat, if you like fruit juice. The third option is the mango nectar. Or you could always go for a Coke, if you want something familiar.”

Bond pulled a 5 shekel coin from his pocket and inserted it. He pressed the third button from the top, jerked the tab open and took a long sip of Prigat. “I like fruit juice,” he said casually. “And if I wanted something familiar, I’d have stayed in London.”

“Fair.” Levy deposited his own 5 shekel coin and got a can of Coke. “Now I get the feeling you’re just being contrary.” Bond smiled. “No, man,” Levy said. He shrugged his shoulders. “I just really like Coke better.”

“You’re American,” Bond noted. Levy crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue in a grotesque, infantile gesture. 

“Yeah, I guess the old man left that part out. I have dual citizenship. My dad’s from Pittsburgh, my mom’s from Tel Aviv. I was born in Pittsburgh, and when my parents split I spent half the year in each place. I guess you could say I’m a citizen of the world.”

“Interesting,” Bond said, though he wasn’t all that interested. “Can I bum a fag?” Levy grinned and offered Bond the bright blue pack with white Hebrew lettering. He reached into the pocket of his jeans for a matchbox and gave it to him.

“I always thought it was funny how you Brits call cigarettes ‘fags.’ Of course I’m sure you realize what it means in America. It’s -”

“Yes yes, I know,” Bond interrupted irritably. He struck a match and lit the Noblesse, taking a drag as he tossed the matchstick carelessly behind him. “Now then, tell me something you think I don’t know.”

Levy smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “I know the people who took the American agent. I know exactly where to find him. I could take you to him. Or…”

“Or what?” Bond’s tone was calm and flat. He regarded Levy coldly with icy blue eyes. “What else would you do?”

“Or, I could alter the terms of our arrangement. I’m young, but I’m not an idiot. I know Jack Ryan is a really big fish. He’s worth a lot more than a measly £20,000.”

Bond surprised Levy by slowly nodding. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll tell you what, kid: fulfill your end of the agreement. Take me to where Ryan is, and once we have him safe and sound, I’ll speak with M on your behalf. You may very well end up with twice the promised payment.”

“You’re not kidding. You’re really serious.” Levy’s eyes widened. “I thought for sure you’d tell me off for being an ‘entitled little shit’ or something. Maybe grab me by my shirt collar and slam me up against a wall. Man, you’re nothing like what people say you are.”

Bond smiled thinly and put his hand on Levy’s shoulder. “My dear boy, you really shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

* * *

Several hours later, after walking approximately 12 miles into the Negev Desert, Bond and Levy came upon the limestone cave where Ryan had been confined for five days. Dusk was approaching, and in the meantime, the men concealed themselves behind a tamarisk tree located about 100 yards from the entrance.

“The guys who nabbed Ryan are a small group, maybe a dozen or so. They call themselves _‘B’nai Tsaddiq. The Sons of Righteousness.’_ They’re pretty sickening. Their whole thing is that they’re protecting the Jewish race by preventing Jewish women from marrying _goyim._ They think mixed marriage is a crime worthy of death.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Bond said. “According to his file, Jack Ryan has never married. What is their issue with him?”

“True, he has never been married, but he was in a long term relationship with a famous American Jewish woman. Dr. Cathy Muller? I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

“I have. Years ago she assisted MI6 with a particularly difficult case. She prevented the weaponization and outbreak of pneumonic plague, which unfortunately is making a comeback in some parts of the world. We could have had a pandemic on our hands without her.”

“Pneumonic plague? Is that like the disease that wiped out half of Europe in the Middle Ages?”

“Yes, more or less. The same bacterium causes both strains of the illness, just in different parts of the body. One of the Islamist groups had isolated and perfected a strain so virulent it could have led to a repeat of the Black Death.”

“Man. That would have really sucked.” Levy scowled and spat. “I can kind of understand why those towel headed goat fuckers hate us Jews. There’s a rivalry and mutual hatred between us and them that goes back thousands of years, before that illiterate peddler ever even had that acid trip up in the cave. Bottom line: they hate us because God likes us best.”

"How interesting." Bond yawned and stretched his legs. “So how do you know these _‘B’nai Tsaddiq_?’”

Levy blushed furiously.

“I almost joined them. But then I got recruited for Mossad. I agree with them on some things, but the way they go about it is wrong. Besides, it doesn’t hurt for Jewish women to marry _goyim_; Jewish identity is inherited from the mother, after all. It’s getting dark. We should go.”


	7. Theatrical Bullsh*t

Jack didn’t wake again until he was roughly slapped across the face. He gasped, startled, and shrank back from the one who’d hit him. It was that kid Avi, this time wearing an olive green T-shirt with the insignia of the Israeli Defense Force. He laughed and slapped Jack again, leaving the imprint of his hand on his cheek. 

“Wakey wakey, shegetz. The boss wants me to feed you and see if you need to use the shitter. Not that we have one, per se. We all just dig holes in the back, take shits and cover ‘em up. Like cats in a litter box.”

Jack covered his mouth and coughed. Small flecks of blood dotted his palm. “I’ll take you up on the food, but I’m good otherwise.” He wiped his hand on the leg of his black cargo pants. “I’m starving.”

“No shit.” Avi sat down beside Jack and opened the small green drawstring bag he’d carried on his back. “You haven’t eaten anything since you’ve been here. You’ve barely even been awake. And that’s been five days.”

He gave Jack a pita sandwich in cling wrap and a bottle of water. Jack ripped the sandwich open and wolfed it down in three bites. He uncapped the water and drank ½ of the bottle. “Dude, slow down. Your stomach’s going to hurt if you don’t.”

Jack laughed and put the cap back on the bottle. “No need to worry about that. It already hurts. It hasn’t stopped hurting since you hit it with the barrel of that rifle a few days ago.”

Avi frowned. “That wasn’t me. I don’t do guns. Knives are my thing. That was one of the higher ups. Sauli or Yair. I’m a grunt, one of the newbies. They wouldn’t trust me with a gun.”

“They were wearing fatigues and ski masks. I’ve only seen you wear civvies. I guess you weren’t there for the shoot after all.”

“Oh, I was there.” Avi chewed on his lower lip. “I recorded the video and kicked you in the head. I wanted them to hurry up so I could get out of that crap and put the camera down. I’m sorry, I guess. I can be a real schmendrik. But it was so hot, and I don’t really go for that theatrical bullshit.”

“That was one hell of a kick. You put my lights out for, what, three days? And nearly a whole day the time after that. You’re tough, kid. How old are you?”

“16,” Avi answered. “And I’m American, in case you couldn’t tell. Well, I was American. I want to become an Israeli citizen. I don’t really know how to do that.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I thought you were at least 18. You’re too young to even think about stuff like that. You have to go home.”

“I am home.” Avi stood up and unlocked the screen on his mobile phone. He grinned. “It looks like you’re about to have some company. Intruder alert.”

* * *

Under the cover of darkness, Bond and Levy slipped past the guards posted at the cave entrance. This required an additional hour of hiding behind the tamarisk tree. By 7:00 in the evening, one of the guards went further into the cave to tend to some personal business. The other had fallen asleep, before his comrade ever left. Bond and Levy slowly snuck past him, the soft sand and stone muting the sounds of their footsteps.

“Something isn’t right. This is far too easy,” Bond whispered as he knelt with Levy behind a boulder. “Aren’t there more guards than this?”

“Yeah. There are two posted about every 50 yards. But remember, I said there are only a dozen or so members left in the group. Maybe 15, tops.” Levy yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Aw hell. I was going to wait until we got further in. No time like the present, I guess.”

Before Bond could ask him what he meant, Levy abruptly grabbed his head and slammed it into the boulder. “Oh my God.” Bond groaned and quickly rolled away from Levy as his vision swam. He tried to get up, but Levy sat down on his back and pinned him to the ground.

“You’re surprisingly heavy,” Bond observed. “What are you, about 70 kilos?”

“68. Normally you’d be able to bench press my weight, but now you lack the strength. Do you want to know why?”

“It was something in the fruit juice. Some powder or element to cause temporary paralysis or weakening of the muscles.”

“Right you are. Curare has been used for thousands of years by South American tribes to paralyze their prey. They’d dip their darts in the alkaloid. In this case, I thought it’d be a lot easier to just blend it with the sugars in the soda.”

“How did you know for sure that I’d drink the Prigat?”

“I didn’t. That particular vending machine was filled with curare-infused drinks. I filled the machine myself. The form of curare I used was timed to gradually take effect in a matter of hours, which is precisely how long it took us to get here.”

“I should have suspected something back at the Well. You played the part of the spoiled little shit too well.”

“Honestly, Mr. Bond, I’m hurt. I pretty much _am_ a spoiled little American shit. It’s thanks to my father’s money and influence that I was able to do any of this in the first place.”

“And by ‘this,’ you mean…”

“Everything. Graduated high school at 16. Served in Mossad’s Metsada unit from 18-21. Those were some good times. I was actually paid to kill people. That was a real dream come true for me. 

“Everything was going great for me. Until my girl left me and ran off with a shegetz. And not just any shegetz. She left me for a Palestinian bastard. I killed them both, slit their throats. Gathered a group of like-minded guys and founded _B’nai Tsaddiq_.”


	8. Stay Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Stay awake with me.  
You know I can't just let you be.  
Stay awake with me.  
Take your hand and come and find me."
> 
> -London Grammar

Moments after Avi made the declaration, the “visitor” was dragged into Jack’s line of vision. The intruder’s feet and arms had been tightly bound.

He was dragged partly by his shirt collar and in part by a vice grip on his thick blond hair. His bright blue eyes were glazed, and he didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on.

“Damn. He’s a lot heavier than I thought he’d be.” The man stopped and dumped the “visitor” unceremoniously in front of Jack. He poked Jack’s side and smiled cruelly when he flinched.

“Here ya go, Ryan, I brought you a present. You should thank me. I know it couldn’t have been easy only having this schmuck for company these last few days.” The captor smirked and flicked Avi’s nose.

“Ow! Zack, you don’t have to be such an asshole. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me.”

“It’s Yitzhak. How many times do I have to tell you, Avraham?” He pinched Avi’s nose between his fingers until there were tears in the teen’s eyes. “Ow, OK, OK! Yitzhak, stop!”

“That’s better. Run along, now. Go polish the weapons or something.” 

Yitzhak made a shooing gesture with his hand. Avi glowered and walked away rubbing his nose. Jack felt a smidge of sympathy for the poor kid. His own nose still throbbed and burned.

Yitzhak reached down and cut the ropes binding the intruder’s legs. “Won’t have to worry about him moving for a while. At least not for another hour. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” Yitzhak whistled as he walked away.

Jack turned his attention to the new captive. He looked to be in his late 40’s, and was a few inches shorter than himself. He blinked, and a look of horror came over his face as he regarded Jack. “Oh, bloody hell!”

“You’re British,” Jack remarked dully. He took a deep breath and massaged his temples with his thumbs. His head always ached now.

“And you’re Jack Ryan.” The man huffed and closed his eyes.

“I guess you’re the cavalry, then. What’s your name? What division are you in?”

“Yes, and unfortunately mine is a solo mission. My name’s Bond. James Bond. I’m with the Secret Intelligence Service.”

“I wish I could say it’s nice to meet you. No, that sounds bad. In any other circumstance, I’d be thrilled to meet you. You said you came here alone. Who’s your backup? Who’s going to come for you now?”

“The chap who brought me here was supposed to be my backup. Somehow he was able to convince me that he was. Finding out he’s the mastermind behind this whole fiasco is a pretty bitter pill.”

Bond opened his eyes and looked at Jack with a worried expression.

“Christ, they’ve really put you through the wringer. You look awful, mate.” Jack laughed. “Thanks. You don’t look so good yourself, buddy.” He coughed and spit up red-tinged sputum.

“How long have you been coughing up blood?” Bond frowned. “You don’t have to put on the brave macho man routine with me. I really couldn’t care less about the pissing contest between MI6 and the CIA. I’m here to help you, Ryan.”

“You know, I really wish I could believe you. But I’m used to getting fucked over. If you’re telling the truth, tell me who sent you.”

“Cathy,” Bond answered bluntly. “Dr. Cathy Muller.”

Jack’s face hardened. “I don’t believe you. Anybody could have told you about her. You could just be using her name to ingratiate yourself with me. Tell me who really sent you.”

“I swear to you, it was Dr. Cathy Muller. When they heard of your capture, the CIA didn’t budge. Dr. Muller called my superior directly, and he sent me.”

Jack winced and rubbed the side of his head. His fingers came away bloody. “Ugh, my head hurts.”

“Small wonder, I’ve seen the video. You have a concussion. Your nose is broken, and God only knows what else. You never told me how long you’ve been coughing up blood.”

“Um, a few days, I think.” Jack moaned and tilted his head back. “I’ve only been in the field a little over a year. I’ve had my share of bumps, bruises, and broken bones. But this is the worst pain I’ve ever felt. And to think I was done in by a damn kid with anger issues. Fuck me.”

“Nonsense, Ryan. It’s like you said, you’ve only been on active duty for about a year. Talk to me. Tell me about yourself.”

“My name’s John Patrick Ryan, but I’ve been called ‘Jack’ since I was a baby. I was born May 17, 1982. My old man was an officer with the Baltimore Police Department. Mom stayed home during the day and took care of me and my sister…” Jack’s voice trailed off when he briefly passed out. He woke again and caught himself when he started to fall over.

“...but at night, she worked as a nurse at Johns Hopkins. Pretty much all of my education was at Catholic schools. I joined the Marines after I graduated, and did a tour in Afghanistan. Went to Boston College on the G.I. Bill and got a B.A. in economics. I liked it so much I got a PhD and went to work at a finance firm in Washington. Joe Muller was my boss. That’s how I met Cathy.”

Jack grinned and laughed dizzily. “She’s an angel. I don’t know how she ever put up with me. Maybe that’s why I never reached out to her again. She’s too good for me...”

He groaned and his head lolled to one side. “God, I’m so tired. It seems like all I’ve done is sleep lately. But it’s all I want to do.”

Bond bent his fingers as the curare began to wear off. He glanced over at Jack and his heart skipped.

“Ryan, stay awake! I know you’re exhausted, but you’ve got to hang on. Stay awake. Ryan!”


	9. The Twelfth Night

Over the next several days, Bond was able to keep track of time by the frequency with which Avi brought him and Jack food or took them into another chamber to do their business. He brought them sandwiches, pita crackers and hummus, lentils in small paper Dixie bowls they ate with plastic forks. He checked in on them every 3-4 hours.

With Levy’s permission, Bond has made use of his rudimentary medical training. The alcohol of a 12 oz. bottle of Anak provided by Avi was the only available antiseptic. Bond tore his shirt into strips, soaked them in the alcohol, and gently wiped the caked blood and grime from Jack’s nose and the laceration on the side of his head. Jack hissed as it stung his wounds.

Bond grimaced and held Jack’s nose with the tips of his fingers. “I have to realign it, or the bone won’t heal properly. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but this is going to hurt. I apologize.” He wrapped an arm around Jack’s back to hold him still and twisted the bone back into place.

Bond steeled himself against Jack’s shrieks, and turned to look away so he would not have to see the agony in his eyes. He heard a soft thud as Jack fell over. Broken and beaten down as he’d been, Jack fainted at regular intervals. 

Bond could tell when he was on the precipice of unconsciousness by the fevered glaze and panicked darting of his hazel eyes. Every time Jack passed out, Bond’s fear and anger grew. He was bleeding internally, but without access to proper medical attention, Bond had no way of knowing how severe his injuries were.

He protected Jack however he could. He gave him ½ of his food. He checked his pulse and eased him back to consciousness by gently shaking his shoulder or patting his cheek. Levy rolled his eyes and mocked Bond for being “a pussy.”

One day, Levy ordered one of his henchmen to tie them together back to back. The rope bit into Bond’s bare skin, and it was tied so tightly that Jack whimpered. A crowd of men soon gathered around them. Bond counted ten men, including Levy.

They hung back and looked on as Levy approached the captives. His brown eyes gleamed madly as he waved a long, curved dagger in front of Bond’s face. 

“I guess your lives aren’t worth too much to MI6. I thought for sure we’d have gotten an offer for yours, Bond, even if they don’t give a shit about the little Boy Scout here.” He cackled and punched Jack in the stomach, grinning as he howled.

“Stop. You’ll kill him, you sick, sadistic prat! Don't think you'll get the £40,000 now. You won’t even get a penny.”

“I guess you weren’t paying attention to me before. Remember how I told you it was my dear old dad’s money that made all of this possible? £40,000 is chump change. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Fine. What do you want?”

Levy scoffed and glared at Bond balefully. “I want my family’s honor restored. I want that disgusting _Nokri_ fuck to pay for what he’s done.” Bond’s brow furrowed. “What has he ever done to you?”

Levy leaned in close until his face was mere inches from Bond’s. “For starters, he fucked my sister and polluted her with his filthy shegetz seed.”

* * *

Cathy picked the baby up from the sitter 45 minutes late. A sheepish grin and an additional $25 stifled any potential protest from the beleaguered teenager who lived downstairs. Cathy thanked the girl and bundled the baby up in her pink fleece carrier parka. “I’m sorry I’m late, sweetie. Mommy’s here now.”

She buried her nose in her daughter’s neck and breathed in her pure, sweet scent. At four months old, Kelly no longer had the characteristic ‘new baby smell,’ but she almost always smelt like the lavender baby shampoo Cathy favored. Kelly cooed and giggled as her mother kissed her and blew a raspberry in her cheek. Her gray-green eyes greatly resembled Cathy’s, but in every other respect, she was her father’s daughter.

Discovering that she was pregnant after Jack’s departure had been a very small consolation. For the duration of her gestation, Cathy experienced debilitating stress and depression. She frequently had severe Braxton-Hicks contractions that eventually caused her to take an extended leave of absence from the hospital, and then to go on short-term disability.

For all of the pain and difficulty of the pregnancy, Cathy had a remarkably easy labor and delivery.

Olivia Barbara “Kelly” Ryan was born at 1:43 PM on July 17, 2019. Cathy had carefully chosen her name - “Olivia” for her favorite literary character in Shakespeare’s _Twelfth Night,_ and “Barbara” for Batgirl, her favorite cartoon and comic book character from childhood - but Joe Muller had taken one look at her and nicknamed her ‘for the Kelly green color’ of her first bonnet, blanket, and onesie.

She had hesitated to list Jack as Kelly’s father on the birth certificate. She did not know if she would ever see him again. If their paths ever did cross, she didn’t think that she could bear the thought of having to share Kelly with him. Surprisingly, it was Joe who had been the voice of reason. 

“For God’s sake, Cathy, put the man’s name on there. Do you want your daughter to have to go through life wondering why she doesn’t have a father? What, did you want to frame that thing, to prove you could do it on your own? Society may be a bit more progressive about some things since I was a kid, but it’s not that advanced. Besides, honey, she’s his child just as much as she is yours.”

Well, he’s right, Cathy had thought as she wrote _**John Patrick Ryan**_ on the certificate in bold black ink.

Cathy’s phone buzzed in her pocket when the elevator door opened on her floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in the second scene of this chapter seem to contradict Cathy's thoughts and feelings in chapter 5. However, that scene was written to reflect Cathy's state of mind **before** she discovered her pregnancy. 
> 
> Likewise, her reluctance to list Jack as her baby's father reflects a fleeting, temporary anger she held against him at the time. In sum, she was ambivalent about it.
> 
> "Goy," "Nokri," and "shegetz" all refer to someone who is not Jewish, in progressive stages of pejoration.


	10. Made of Stone

Bond and Jack audibly gasped at the same time. 

Levy traced the line of Bond’s jaw with the edge of his blade. 

“Yup, the all-American hero here beguiled my sister, seduced her, and foisted a little half-breed bastard on her. It’s sad to say, but I’ve never met Cathy, and I doubt I ever will. She is my older half-sister, the daughter of my father Joe Muller and his wife. Me and Avraham are Joe’s sons with his Israeli mistress, Zipporah Levy.”

Levy paused and glared at Jack. The revelation that he was a father outweighed the news that he’d been taken captive by his former lover’s illegitimate little brothers. He sniffed and sobbed and buried his face in his hands. 

“Dear God, what have I done? How could I have just run out on Cathy, without even considering that…” Jack’s face contorted and he tore at the roots of his hair. His fingernails soon became crusted with blood.

Bond grunted and reached behind himself to hold Jack’s arms still. “Stop. You can’t blame yourself for something like this. How could you possibly have known?”

“But I should have known! I should have tried to find out. Cathy has lived in the same apartment on Wisconsin Avenue for the last 10 years! I still have her number saved in my phone. I could have called her anytime. James, how come I never called her?”

“I don’t know, Jack, but that doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that you have a child. We have got to get out of here. We cannot allow your child to grow up without you.”

“Hunh-uh.” Jack shook his head. “W-we’ve got to get out of here. What are we going to do?” He squeezed Bond’s hands and let them go. “I’ll do whatever you say. I trust you.”

Bond felt a rush of pride for the young agent, that was summarily dashed by the sudden, violent thud of a projectile that hit the top of Jack’s head.

Riding a surge of adrenaline, Bond shoved Levy away from them, leaped up and ducked behind the nearest boulder. Using his teeth and the small plastic fork he’d hidden away in his shoe, Bond tore the rope that bound him to Jack. 

He turned toward him and grunted at the large, red rounded bruise in the middle of Jack’s forehead. His eyes were open wide and flitted wildly back and forth. Bond gritted his teeth and cupped the sides of Jack’s face. “Jack,” he uttered in a low, firm murmur. “Look at me. Listen to my voice.”

Jack moaned and slowly focused on Bond’s face. He shivered in his hold and bit his lower lip. A trickle of blood flowed from the bruise on his forehead. He opened his mouth and gasped. He closed and opened it again.

“J-James wha...what happened?” He braced himself with one elbow on the boulder, then groaned and fell face forward against Bond. He raised his head, groaned, and his chin dropped onto Bond’s shoulder. His nose was bleeding again, smearing on the older man’s bare skin.

“Lie still,” Bond said. “One of these bastards threw a stone at you. Hit you right between the eyes.” Jack pulled back a little. He lifted his face to Bond’s and squinted. “Good God. What a dirty, rotten...I can hardly believe this. But I can still fight, I can -”

“No. Stay here. Recline against the rock. Your head was struck too hard.”  


“But I can…” Jack struggled in Bond’s hold and cried out. Bond groaned and slapped his cheek lightly to get his attention. “Stay here, you bloody fool.” He pulled Jack’s tattered shirt over his head and folded it into a pillow.

“Stay here. No one doubts your bravery, Jack. But my orders were to find you and get you back to Cathy in one piece.”

Jack momentarily passed out. He woke again, wincing, as Bond lowered him to the ground and arranged the makeshift pillow beneath his head. “We’re getting out of here,” he hissed vehemently. “But first, I’m going to kill every other motherfucker in this cave.”

“Is that so?” Levy laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. “How are you going to do that?”

“He’s not. I am.”

Abruptly, Levy screamed and collapsed in a hail of bullets. Bond blinked and looked in the direction the bullets had come from. Avi emerged from the shadows, dressed in the olive drab fatigue he’d worn when filming the video. He held an Uzi submachine gun in his trembling hands.

“Avraham, what...the...fuck?” Levy stared at his younger brother in disbelief. “How...why…?”

“You’re the one who taught me how to shoot in the first place. You shouldn’t have been such a dick to me. You can’t treat people like this, Zack. I don’t care if Ryan is a shegetz, he’s a good man. He’s our niece’s father. The jig’s up, asshole.”

“No...what about the others?” Levy coughed and spat up blood. 

Avi laughed hysterically and shook his head. “They’re all dead. While you were busy flapping your gums, I shot every single one of ‘em. All 14, even poor old Eli. He was the last to go, and then my silencer wore out. But that was OK. I wanted you to hear.”

He laughed again and in the next breath started to sob. He sank to his knees and held the Uzi like he was lost at sea and it was his life preserver. Bond jumped up and covered the distance between them. He knelt down and gently took the gun out of Avi’s hands.

“It’s alright, lad. You’re alright.” He took the magazine out of the Uzi and dropped it on the ground. He wrapped his arms around Avi and pulled the teen toward him in an uncharacteristic embrace.

“You’re alright,” he repeated. He leaned back to peer into Avi’s teary, bloodshot eyes. “Everything is going to be OK. We are going to take you home now.”


	11. JBH

“Bond, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.” 

Jack’s attempt at stoicism fell flat when he gasped and dissolved into a fit of coughing. When he finally stopped, there were small droplets of blood on the palm of his hand.

Bond raised an eyebrow and tittered in disbelief. 

“You have three broken ribs, a poorly realigned broken nose, a severe traumatic brain injury, a ruptured peritoneum, a septic infection from said ruptured peritoneum, and multiple sprains and contusions all over your body. But of course, you’re fine. I guess it's foolish of me to concern myself with your welfare any further.”

“Gah, it’s pretty harsh when you say it like that. And pretty heartless.” Jack smiled sloppily and fiddled with his I.V. drip. “What I meant to say was, ‘I feel fine.’ This is some great stuff you’ve got me on. What is it?”

“Morphine for the pain, and vancomycin to kill the bacteria and help your body fight off infection. As I said before, you’ve been through the wringer a few times, and the bowels of Hell itself. It’s a miracle you survived this.”

“Yeah, it must have been because someone was watching out for me, huh, James?” Jack’s voice slurred. He wiped his hand on his gown and reached out to playfully flick Bond’s nose. Out of reflex, Bond grabbed Jack’s hand. He huffed and sighed in exasperation at the younger agent’s puzzled, wounded expression.

He squeezed Jack’s hand and sat down in the chair beside his bed. “Sorry about that, kid. I’ve had a few bad experiences with people sticking things in my face. You triggered something in me.”

“Right.” Jack nodded sarcastically. “For the record, though, I’m not a kid. I’m 37 years old, last I checked. And dude, ew, gross! Nobody wants to hear about whatever weird homoerotic shit you’ve been exposed to.”

“Christ.” Bond smiled wanly and shook his head. “What happened to the polite, reticent Jack Ryan I met in Be’er Sheva? Compared to myself, you are a kid.”

“Oh, yeah? How old are you?”

“50, so pretty damn old. Old enough to retire, I should think.”

“No, don’t do that!” Jack’s face crumpled. “You’re like, one of the best. The best of the best. Better than all the rest.” He laughed at the awkward look on Bond’s face until he snorted a string of thick phlegm. “Yuck.”

“Yes, quite.” Bond pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and gingerly wiped the snot from Jack’s nose. “Here, you can keep this.” Jack blinked and stared at the small white cloth blearily. The initials JBH were stitched into the material. “Hey, this is monogrammed. What does the H stand for?”

“Herbert,” Bond said softly. “After my paternal grandfather, who was a Scottish laird and a soldier in the First World War.”

“Whoa, I didn’t know you were part Scottish. I might have a Scottish ancestor somewhere down the line, but for the most part I’m a Mick. On both sides of my family.”

“Really.” Bond feigned ignorance. In truth, he had read as much in Jack’s file. His heart had sunk when he read about the deaths of Jack’s parents, Emmet and Catherine, in a plane crash in his senior year of high school. He’d failed to mention that fact, but Bond hardly blamed him. The trauma of their deaths no doubt influenced him to join the Marines.

“I’m half Scottish, half Swiss. My father was a salesman for a firearms company. We traveled the world often, but I always liked spending time in Grandfather Herbert’s home the best. It was a beautiful stone lodge in the Highlands he called Skyfall. I grew up there, more or less, until I was 11.”

“Yeah? What happened when you were 11?” Jack shifted his legs and clung to the bedrail as if in anticipation.

“My grandfather died first, and then my parents died mountain climbing in the Alps.” Bond frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “My grandmother had died before I was even born, as had my maternal grandparents. I had to leave because I had no one and nothing.”

“You had Skyfall. You could have stayed, if you’d wanted to. Um, you could have gotten it back, anyway. What did you do? Where did you go?”

Bond’s face darkened. “Storytime is finished for the day. You should get some rest, Jack, you need it. You have been through quite an ordeal.”

“Yeah, but so have you.” Jack yawned and slung an arm over his eyes. “You were hurt by those goons, too.”

“Yes, but that was just a flesh wound. Nothing a little Bactine and butterfly stitches couldn’t fix.” Bond pursed his lips and cleared his throat. “We have about six more hours until we land. Sleep well until then.”

* * *

Bond sauntered into the cockpit and sat down heavily in the seat beside M. “Good Lord. I need a stiff drink, a cigarette, or both.” He covered his face with his hands and groaned. “The poor boy has no idea what’s happened.”

“Now James, you know bloody well and good you can’t smoke on an airplane. Haven’t been able to for nearly 30 years.”

Bond opened one eye and glanced over. “Yes sir, of course.” He rooted around in M’s duffel bag and took out a small cask of whisky. He unscrewed the lid and took a swig. “Ah, Jameson. I always took you for a Dead Rabbit man, myself.” He belched and downed the rest of the cask.

M took the theft in stride. “I hope that was enough. I hope you enjoyed it, James, because that’s the last time I allow you to drink on the job.”

“So says the man who brought whisky aboard a medical helicopter. It’s a good job I did drink it. It wouldn’t do for anyone to discover that you occasionally drink while playing pilot.”

“I resent that. After what you and the American went through, we could all use a drink.”


	12. Cry

“Hello, my name is Cathy Muller. I’m here to see Jack Ryan.” The clerk, a perky, bright eyed young blonde, held out a ballpoint pen and pointed to the black leather registry. “Sign here, please. Oh, hello, who is this?” She beamed and waved at Kelly, who grinned and gurgled and stuck her fingers in her mouth.

Cathy smiled politely. “This is Kelly.” She kissed the top of the baby’s head. “Say hello, sweetie.” Kelly took her hand out of her mouth and reached out toward the clerk, whose face lit up.

“Goodness, your child is precious. Mr. Ryan is in Room 203. That is the third door on your right on the second floor.” She waved once more as Cathy walked away, and then turned back to her paperwork.

Cathy was the only one on the elevator. When the door opened on the second floor, her heart suddenly began to race. She clutched Kelly tightly until she wailed in protest. “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s a little nervous. She hasn’t seen Daddy in a very long time.”

From what Mallory had told her, Jack was not in good shape. He was grievously injured and malnourished. During his 13 days of captivity, he had lost nearly 10 pounds. He had been comatose for nearly half of that time. He had undergone surgery in which the doctors had drilled a hole in the top of his skull to relieve the pressure on his brain from his traumatic injury.

For all she knew, Cathy might not even recognize Jack when he came out of the ether. She stopped outside Room 203 and wondered if she should reconsider. Bringing Kelly might not have been the best idea, but since her father was busy with another matter and she could not hire a sitter on such short notice, Cathy had carried the baby with her on the brief walk from the hotel to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. “Come in.” The man’s voice was wary and soft. It was comforting. Cathy turned the knob and pushed the door open. She stifled a sob at the sight of Jack lying in bed, covered in tubes with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

His eyes were closed and ringed with dark circles. His beautiful lank brown hair had been shaved off. The whole back of his head was wrapped in a thick gauze bandage. The rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator combined with the drip of the I. V. and the beeping of the heart monitor provided a fitting soundtrack to Cathy’s apprehension.

“My God. How long has he been like this?” She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until the man in the recliner by Jack’s bed stood up and answered her.

“He was awake for about 10 minutes on the flight from Israel, but he has been asleep ever since. I would say about ten hours or so. In addition to the blunt force trauma he sustained, Jack is still under the effects of the anesthesia from surgery.”

The man took a few steps toward her and waggled his fingers in Kelly’s face. “Hello, love. You must be Kelly. My name’s James. I am a friend of your dad’s.” He smiled and winked. Kelly cooed and waved her arms in excitement.

“So you’re Jack’s ‘friend.’” Cathy shifted the baby’s weight and extended her hand. “For the first time in my life, I am truly at a loss for words. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t seem to suffice. But thank you, James.”

He took Cathy’s hand and brought it to his lips. “You are welcome, ma’am. I am only sorry that I wasn’t able to bring him home sooner.” He sniffed and discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. 

Cathy took in his disheveled appearance. Though it had recently been washed, the man’s hair was unruly and stuck out in tufts all over his head. His blue eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. The shabby gray sweater and sweatpants he wore looked like they were castoffs from a Salvation Army rummage sale. 

There was a large beige bandage on his right cheek, but besides that, it did not appear that he had been injured. She wanted to ask, but didn’t want to be impolite. As if he could read her mind, he smiled darkly and turned his head so the fluorescent light highlighted his bandaged cheek.

“Ah, you’re wondering about my war wound. I was slashed with a knife traditionally used in animal sacrifice to make the meat kosher, or something like that. At the time, I couldn’t quite understand what was going on, what the man blathered about. The knife he used was called ‘alaf,’ I believe.”

“_Chalaf,_” Cathy said softly. She reached out and traced her fingertips along his uninjured cheek. He briefly flinched before relaxing and resting his face in her palm. “Thank you, James,” she reiterated. “From the bottom of my heart.”

“Of course,” he replied with a nod. “You’re welcome.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants and looked over at Jack. He hated the rush of anxiety that came over him. 

He had known the man for only a week, but in that time they seemed to have formed a brotherhood. Such fraternization was generally frowned upon in the British Royal Navy, but from what he had heard and seen on the telly, it was par for the course among the United States Marines.

All of a sudden, Jack snorted and shifted in the bed. He opened his eyes and blinked several times. He smiled when he saw James, and his smile widened when he realized that Cathy was there, too.

“You’re here. Cathy, you’re really here,” Jack whispered. He focused on Kelly, and promptly burst into tears. The excitement startled the baby, who lifted her voice and began to cry as well.

“Shh, it’s alright, baby. I’m here,” Cathy murmured to soothe both Kelly and Jack.


	13. Born in the U.S.A.

50 miles away at an undisclosed black site, Joe Muller tapped his fingers nervously on the tabletop. He sat between an Israeli official and the Head of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, and across from CIA Agent Jim Greer and his illegitimate 16-year-old son Avraham “Avi” Levy. 

The boy, whom he had not seen in 10 years, sat in sullen silence. His lower lip protruded. His hands were cuffed and his legs shackled together to restrict movement. Overnight the shy, sensitive teenager had transformed into a savage, lethal criminal.

Chaim Cohen was an agent and recruiter for Mossad. Although 12 Israeli citizens had been killed during the “incident in the Negev,” the rapid efficiency with which Avi had dispatched the _B’nai Tsaddiq_ had caught Cohen’s attention. 

The deaths of American citizens 75-year-old Elijah Kruger and 22-year-old Yitzhak “Zack” Levy had of course come to the attention of the CIA. Jim Greer had offered to represent their interests, whatever that entailed.

“The way I see it, the boy is a hero,” he’d told the Director. “He stepped in to do what had to be done. He saved Ryan and that agent from MI6 in one fell swoop.”

He had said as much to the assembly, and was pleasantly surprised to find that they more or less agreed with him. The deaths of the 12 Israelis was a contentious issue, or would be if the information was ever leaked to the public. So far, the world knew that Jack Ryan and James Bond had been saved, with no particular details disclosed. 

The three officials had met to discuss what to do about the situation. Joe Muller had been invited as a courtesy. He hemmed and hawed and didn’t seem to care one way or another that one of his sons had been killed, and by the other, younger son, no less. Nor did he really seem to care what happened to Avi.

The Head of MI6 cleared his throat. “The way I see it, gentlemen, we have two options: either young Avraham joins MI6 or Mossad, or he surrenders himself to the American authorities to be put on trial and possibly imprisoned. I think it is fair to say that none of us here wants to see the latter happen.”

“He is just 16 years old, too young to join the ranks of Mossad.” Cohen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I have received communication from the capital that the Prime Minister would be prepared to pardon him, with the stipulation that he never set foot in Israel again.”

Avi flinched and frowned. He stared down at his cuffed wrists. He had lived in Israel since he was six years old, when his parents had ended their relationship. Joe Muller had returned to the United States to reconcile with his wife, and he and Zack had stayed in Be’er Sheva to be raised by their mother Zipporah in the rundown manor house Joe had grown up in.

Unlike his brother, Avi was not a dual citizen. He had American citizenship only because he had been born in Pittsburgh and had spent most of his life there. Joe Muller had kept Zipporah up in a nice apartment and had put his sons in expensive private schools. 250 miles away his wife was slowly dying of Alzheimer’s and his daughter was attending Georgetown University’s School of Medicine.

When he had moved to Israel with his mother and brother the summer after first grade, Avi had struggled but never been able to fit in. He stuttered, he struggled to learn the Hebrew alphabet. He wet the bed until he was 10 years old. At 16, Yitzhak had fallen in with religious extremists, and it was only a matter of time until Avi followed his lead.

For six years, Avi had tried to live up to Zack’s unattainable standards. The moment he learned of his niece’s existence, Avi realized how wrong he had been. How wrong they all had been. He refused to think of Zack as “evil.” 

He had been gravely misguided. Over the years after being abandoned by their father, his anger had festered and turned into rage and hate. Avi had only done what he had with the realistic fear that if Zack had had his way and killed Jack Ryan, he would next hunt down and kill their sister and infant niece. 

The depth of love Avi had for them was more powerful than the love he’d had for Zack, and most likely he would ever even meet them.

“That’s fine,” Avi said abruptly. “I don’t want to go back to Israel.”

Jim Greer sighed and touched his shoulder. “Fortunately for you, the President of the United States has also pardoned you...but unfortunately, it also hinges on your agreement to never enter the United States.” 

Avi laughed bitterly and looked across the table to the Head of the SIS. “It looks like I have no other choice. I’ll join MI6.”

The Head smiled wolfishly and patted Avi’s hand. 

“Good man. I have the fullest confidence in you. You will soon prove to be a great asset to Queen and Country. The only impediment now is that one must be at least 18 years old to join the organization...and a British subject.

You will be appointed a guardian until you are of age. In that time, you will familiarize yourself with British culture and customs. Normally it would take one 5 years to become a citizen, but I will exercise my influence to expedite the process.”

He turned to Joe Muller and raised an eyebrow. “We will be departing soon. If you have something to say to your son, Mr. Muller, now is the time. If you would like some privacy, we will excuse ourselves.”

Joe shrugged and shook his head. “I have nothing in particular to say to the boy. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He summarily stood up and walked away. 

When Joe had left, Avi laid his head down and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I made Joe Muller out to be a total dick in this. I have little familiarity with the character beyond what I saw in the first season of the show, which did not leave the best impression. The OC Avi Levy is inspired by and envisioned as Finn Wolfhard.


	14. You Said It

The first thing Madeleine did when she saw Bond was throw her arms around his neck and kiss him until he broke away and sputtered for breath. “James, _mon amour_, you look hell! What have they done to you?” She kissed the curve of his jaw and blew a stream of hot breath onto his bandaged cheek.

“That’s funny, because I feel like shit.” James smiled bleakly and took a pack of Marlboros and a lighter out of the back pocket of his sweatpants. He tapped one out and lit it up. 

Madeleine scowled as he inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You return from a mission by the skin of your teeth, you barely survive, and what is the first thing you do? You reach for a cigarette. _Merde_!”

Bond chuckled and snuffed the cigarette out on the rail of the balcony. “There, darling, is that better? It’s hardly the first thing I’ve done. That was my first one of the day, and I promise you it will be my last.” He caressed her cheeks with his thumbs and pulled her in for a kiss. “I’ve been with Jack. I kept a vigil by his bedside and only left because his significant other arrived. Cathy Muller, the one who hired me to rescue him in the first place.”

“Is that so?” Madeleine grabbed the loose collar of his sweater and buried her nose in his neck. He smelled like smoke and sweat and soap, a dizzying aroma that made her feel strangely wretched and elated at the same time. “How interesting.”

“She assisted MI6 on a case several years ago. She’s been an asset on occasion ever since. She is a pathologist at Washington Memorial Hospital in the States and specializes in infectious diseases.”

“Hm, that is impressive.” Madeleine kissed Bond’s neck. She ran her tongue over his Adam's apple and tasted salt. “Marry me,” he said impulsively. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “As much as I have loved living with you in sin these past few years, I have realized that it’s high time we stop putting it off.”

“Yes,” Madeleine said simply. “I will, without delay. Anytime and any place you want. I love you.”

“As I love you.” Bond brushed his fingers through her hair and turned his face into it, breathing deeply. “Ah. You’ve been using my shampoo. I wondered why the bottle was almost empty. No doubt you’ve finished it off by now.”

“Yes,” Madeleine admitted. “But I bought another. As you will see when we return to your flat.”

“Our flat, darling,” Bond corrected. “At least until we can make better arrangements. Do you have anywhere in mind?”

“We will have to stay in London, _n’est-ce pas_? For your work.” Madeleine lifted his hand and kissed his fingers. “I know it took me a while to acclimate to the city, but I will go with you anywhere. I will stay with you anywhere. My home is wherever you are.”

Bond cupped her face in his hands. “We don’t have to stay in London. Not for much longer. I am retiring after the New Year. We can go to Vienna or Paris.”

Madeleine gasped. Her eyes glistened with tears and she laughed until she hiccuped. “We’ll decide by and by. James, we have waited so long! Must we wait any longer? Why don’t we get married, here and now?”

“You’re right. There is no reason to wait. Let me go slip into something a little more comfortable. I’ll see you in a half hour, Mrs. Bond.”

* * *

“I wish you could have been there, Jack. There was no one else in the world I would rather share the moment with than you.” Bond surfed the channels on the telly until he came across his and Jack’s faces in the top right screen. “Oh look, the media have finally gotten round to reporting your rescue. As it were.”

“Oh, yeah? Turn it up,” Jack said. Bond did, raising the volume as high as he could tolerate without the reverberation hurting his ears. Jack, however, apparently could not tolerate it. He cringed and covered his ears. “Not that high!” he shouted to be heard over the din. “Turn it down a few notches!”

“Alright.” Bond grinned cheekily and lowered the volume to where it was just loud enough to hear. Jack sighed and lay back down. The anchor was a pale redhead young woman who looked like she had just graduated from uni.

“...Thanks to the heroic sacrifice of young Avraham Levy, the lives of Agent Ryan and one of our very own were saved. Both suffered injuries in the ordeal, but are expected to make full and speedy recoveries. Now back to the studio in London for…”

Bond turned the television off and sat down heavily in the recliner. He turned the lever on the side for the footrest. “Good Lord. M told me as much, and I have seen quite a few horrendous things in my time. Yet, I've never seen a father disown his own flesh and blood quite so cruelly and callously as Joe Muller has done.” He kneaded the sides of his head. “It goes against all parental instincts. It’s unnatural.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed sadly. He had never experienced such a fierce rush of love as when he held his baby girl in his arms. He would easily sacrifice his life for her. He very nearly had done.

“I don’t know Joe very well, but from the few years he was my boss, I can say I’m not all that interested in getting to know him. He always struck me as a major asshole.”

Bond laughed. “That’s a bit of an understatement. I know you’re hesitant to speak too ill of your child’s grandfather, but let’s call him what he is: a contemptible cunt.”

“You said it, not me.” 

Jack pushed the button to lower the head of his bed and closed his eyes.


	15. Processional

Of the £100,000 that had been deposited into Bond’s bank account upon Jack’s return, he used ¼ of it to pay for some of Jack’s substantial medical bills. Healthcare was free of charge up front for British natives, but unfortunately the NHS did not provide coverage for foreigners who were not ‘ordinarily resident’ in the United Kingdom. The CIA picked up the tab for the remaining balance.

He used a small portion of it to pay for the specially ordered roast quail with cured lemon dinner to serve as a sort of substitute for the turkey dinner Jack missed for Thanksgiving. Bond stood in the far left corner beside the heater, his arms folded over his chest. He wore the white long sleeved vest, cream-colored jodhpurs and tall black boots from a friendly polo match with M earlier in the day.

At Madeleine’s insistence, she and Cathy had gone into the city to see the sites of Birmingham, toting Kelly along in a pink Baby Bjorn. After being in hospital for a week, the doctors determined that Jack had made sufficient progress for the trip home. The tickets had been bought, and the return flight would depart at 10 the next morning.

Bond stared numbly at the wall while Jack ate, taking small bites of meat and washing it down each time with a sip of milk. The telly was tuned to the BBC News channel, the volume low as the anchors chattered inanely about the day’s events. It was cold. It was raining. Prince Andrew had been a bit of a naughty boy at some point in the past. Blah dee bloody blah.

Bond did not realize that Jack had been trying to get his attention until he was hit in the chest by a pencil. He started and assumed a fighting stance, holding the pencil aloft like a small sword. Jack held his hands out in front of him with his palms facing Bond. “Whoa, sorry. I had to do something dramatic to catch your attention. You’ve been gone for a little while. Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I was just thinking back to the polo match this morning. I lost, but I think my boss cheated. I was considering challenging him to a rematch.”

“Sure. Riding horses and beating balls with sticks sounds like a great way to blow off some steam.” Jack snorted dismissively and rolled his eyes. He tore open a packet of salt and liberally covered his plate.

“Blend that in before you take another bite. You’ll have way too much sodium in your system otherwise.” Without waiting for permission, Bond took the plastic fork off of its napkin and spread the food around, blending the salt in with the quail, mashed potatoes, green beans, and corn. Each food item was contained in its own little compartment. The plate was like those Bond had used as a child.

“Gee thanks, Mummy.” Jack jerked the fork out of Bond’s hand and stabbed a green bean. “Mm-mm, tangy, salty goodness.”

“You don’t have to act like a child. I’m just trying to help you.” Bond’s face fell and his voice shook. “I didn’t expect you to survive, Jack. From the moment I saw that stone slam into your head, I thought you were done for. I have been in this line of work for 30 years. I’ve lost several colleagues, some of whom I considered close friends. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you too.”

Jack blushed and absently picked at the corn with the fork. “I’m sorry, James. I don’t know how I lived through all that. If it hadn’t been for you, I probably would have just given up. I never would have found out about my daughter. I never would have been able to hold her. I was an asshole. I’m sorry, OK?”

“OK.” Bond walked forward and gently cuffed his ear. “I acknowledge your apology, and I accept it. How is the quail?”  


“Um, I guess it’s pretty good, but it's a little too rich for me. No, that’s not quite the right word. It’s a little too zesty.”

“Yes, perhaps that is due to the lemon. Do you not like it?”

“It’s alright, but -”

“That being the case, please allow me.” Bond took the fork from Jack. He wiped it off on a napkin and cut out a portion of the quail meat. “Mm, very zesty,” he said, and stuck the fork into the meat again. “Delicious.”

“Hey, that’s mine. Get your own,” Jack groused halfheartedly.

“No, I don’t think I will. You seem to have eaten all that you want of it. Besides, there are still potatoes, green beans and corn here. You should eat them.”

“Yeah, OK.” Jack tore the plastic wrapper off of the plastic spoon and started to eat the mashed potatoes. “Oh my God. These are so good. They’re nothing like the cheap instant potatoes in the little packs.”

“No, I should say not. Having never eaten these ‘instant potatoes’ you speak of. You Americans are always in such a rush. You sacrifice taste and quality for speed and convenience. It’s a travesty, really.”

“Whatever you say. And hey, I really appreciate you putting in a special order to food services for me. Thanksgiving is a great holiday in theory, but I’ve been apathetic about it since my parents died. I haven’t had any semblance of a Thanksgiving meal since I was 18.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m glad you’re enjoying it, more or less.”

“Yup. The quail was good, my stomach just can’t handle anything too rich yet. Maybe by Christmas I’ll be able to eat meat again without any trouble.”  
“Maybe so.” Bond surprised Jack by leaning over and taking his right hand firmly in his. His right shoulder brushed Bond’s left shoulder. He pulled Jack toward him and briefly patted him on the back before letting go.

Jack grinned and nudged Bond’s shoulder with his elbow. “I love you too.”

* * *

Kelly cried all of the 12 miles and 30 minutes it took to reach the Birmingham Airport. “It’s alright, sweetie.” Cathy looked into the car seat and smiled beatifically. “Mr. and Mrs. Bond are only 8 hours away. We’ll fly in next month to see them for Christmas.”

“Actually, Cathy, I think we’ll come to you. Air travel is difficult for anyone, especially your little one.” Madeleine turned around and attempted to make the baby laugh by making a funny face. Kelly let out a fresh wail.

She was still crying when the cab pulled up to the front of the airport. Cathy paid the fare and tipped the driver generously for his trouble. She took the car seat out while Madeleine got the suitcase she had packed out of the trunk.

They found Jack and Bond in the terminal, sitting adjacent to the gift shop. Kelly immediately stopped crying and waved her hands wildly when she saw Jack. Cathy sighed and set the car seat down in front of his chair. “You know, I carried her for 9 months. I brought her into this world, fed her, burped her, and changed her diaper. She’s barely known you a week, and she likes you better. What makes you so special?”

Her tone was teasing and affectionate, but she was exhausted. She softened the sting of her words by leaning down and kissing Jack deeply until he moaned. Madeleine cleared her throat politely and Bond looked at his wristwatch. “Your flight leaves in an hour, Dr. Muller. Perhaps you should check in. Darling, will you accompany Dr. Muller through the process?”

“Of course.” Madeleine kissed Bond’s cheek. She took Cathy’s arm and tugged. “Come along, Cathy. Do bring the car seat, but if Mr. Ryan does not mind, leave Kelly here. You could use a little break, and she needs some time to bond with her Papa.”

“Sure. Alright.” Cathy unstrapped Kelly from the seat, kissed her, and put her into Jack’s outstretched arms. He beamed, his teeth shining like a car’s bright halogen headlights. He bounced Kelly on his lap and clapped her hands together. 

“Mommy will be right back, Kelly. ‘Til then you get to play with Daddy and Uncle James. Guess who loves you more than anything in the whole world?” He covered her cheeks and forehead with kisses. Kelly cooed and shrieked with laughter.

Bond smiled indulgently at Jack’s characterization of him as “Uncle James.” He didn’t quite know what to do at first when Jack abruptly handed the baby over to him. She stared at him regally, as if she were a princess and he were a servant lifting her up for air.

“See, she likes you,” Jack said when Kelly wrapped her chubby fingers around Bond’s thumb. She reached out with her free hand and touched his nose. Bond smiled.

“You’re a natural at this. As your friend, I recommend you and the Mrs. get to work making a baby immediately. You’re not getting any younger.”

Bond snorted and barked a short laugh. “I’m not that old, Jack. I am considerably older than Madeleine - who, by the way, is 33 - but it wouldn’t matter if I were 100 years old. As long as I am, shall we say, ‘spry,’ I will be able to reproduce.”

He pinched Kelly’s cheek between his thumb and forefinger and reluctantly passed her back to Jack. “That being said, I would like to start a family with Madeleine within the next few years. Now that my retirement is on the horizon, we are going to move to France, Austria, or Switzerland. Somewhere she is familiar with, knows the language, and can set up her own practice. If we have children, I will be the stay-at-home parent.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Whoa, respect.” He lifted Kelly high into the air, spun her around and set her on his knee. “As much as I love Kelly, I can’t imagine being with her all the time. As much as I love Cathy, I can’t imagine her being with Kelly all the time. We’ll have to hire a nanny to take care of her while we work.”

“It sounds like you’re planning to move in and live together as a family. I don’t mean to pry, but how long have you known Dr. Muller, exactly?”

“Exactly? About a year and a half. We were together for about five months, and then we were apart for over a year. It’s not her fault, though. I was too afraid. I got too close to her too fast. I couldn’t imagine she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.”

Bond’s eyes flashed. “I’ve been there. You think no one could ever really love you, so you close off part of yourself and tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Then, when someone actually comes along that you love, and who loves you in turn, you think you could never be worthy of true love. You end up sabotaging it all and leaving pain and misery in your wake.”

Jack looked at him and nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s exactly how it was. It’s still going to be hard. There is so much I have to apologize for, a lot I have to make up for. For the life of me, I don’t know what Cathy sees in me.”  


“I can’t speak for her, but if I were to guess, I would say that when she looks at you, she sees a good man. She sees the father of her child. Someone who is willing to fight to protect her, to die for her, if necessary. I think she looks at you and sees the man she wants to spend the rest of her life with.”

At that moment, Jack looked up and saw that Cathy had checked in and was headed his way, her arm locked with Madeleine’s.

Bond smiled and beckoned as he saw his future and Jack’s walk towards them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, huzzah? I wasn't quite sure how to conclude this venture. I only knew that I wanted Jack and Bond to be together in the end scene. I apologize if either of them seemed out of character in any way, especially if they seemed at times too sentimental or too wooden. I love these characters and will possibly write more adventures for them in the future.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
